


Black Umbrellas

by gendzl



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I mashed 2 fandoms together to make a joke that didn't even need 1 of those fandoms in order to land, M/M, Not Kingsman: The Golden Circle Compliant, it's not even that funny?? sometimes I just say things and laugh at myself, not really a crack fic but still pretty much exactly a crack fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21769948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gendzl/pseuds/gendzl
Summary: Choosing a new Arthur is a lot harder when nobody knows who the traitors are. They're going to have to pick someone from outside Kingsman.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The canon umbrellas are 100% to blame for this crossover. 
> 
> There's really no plot here; I just had a humorous idea and ran like all of 2 feet with it. I don't have the commitment/desire to write a whole lengthy relationship development thing to get them from Point A (the intro) to Point B (the truly stupid joke), so Chapter 1 is the intro, and Chapter 2 happens...3 years afterwards.
> 
> This chapter devolves into weird, tiny time jumps at the end for no reason at all? Idk, writing is hard and sometimes I'm lazy about it. See above lol.

Eggsy is shattered. He’s spent the better part of the last 48 hours trying to keep his family from falling apart after the world did, and he’s neither eaten nor slept since leaving Valentine’s mountain stronghold. And now he’s propped against the wheels of a plane in the Kingsman hangar, watching as the last surviving agents (along with Merlin and the rest of the tech team) argue themselves puce over who’s going to be the next Arthur.

He observes the chaos from his perch for the better part of an hour (letting them talk themselves in circles several times) before breaking in. “Oi!”

His shout is loud enough to stall conversation, at least. He rises to his feet and steps further into the space, trying to emanate confidence. Given Roxy’s expression, he only mostly succeeds. Catching several eyes in the room, he says, “The only way we’re going to keep Kingsman from falling apart at the seams is to avoid the issue of trust entirely.

“None of the agents any of you are proposing will get the majority vote. Nobody trusts each other anymore, and with good reason—any of us could be a traitor. We need to hire a new Arthur from _outside_ Kingsman.”

Silence rings throughout the hangar, but most of their faces look considering, if not fully convinced, so he continues. At least they’re listening to him instead of shouting at each other; this place echoes something horrible.

“We should work together and find someone qualified who has never heard of Kingsman. Someone who’s never met any of us, who isn’t related to any of us, who would never have even heard of the job opening in order to apply for it. Someone of absolute moral fiber. Find _them_ , make _them_ the new Arthur, set _them_ the task of rooting out the rest of Chester’s cronies.

“Until we find the right person, we all agree to keep an eye on each other as a group. If we’re all accountable for each other’s actions, and nobody acts before taking their suspicions to the rest of us, we might just all survive this, yeah? Otherwise the lot of us will be dead inside a week, with how suspicious you all are of each other. This doesn’t have to be a witch hunt.” He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and nods to indicate that he’s finished.

Merlin nods in return. “Okay. Let’s vote.”

* * *

It’s astonishingly hard to find a qualified individual in Britain who hasn’t, at some point, encountered a member of Kingsman in an official (or unofficial; they’re being very stringent) capacity. They think they’ve found the right woman, once, about two weeks into the search, until one of the older agents stops through to vote on her way to dinner and starts stammering at the sight of her ex up on the screen.

Back to the drawing board they go. They discard another nineteen people in a row, none of them passing muster for one reason or another. At one point they consider splitting Arthur’s duties between two people, when they find a set of twins who work in almost perfect tandem, but ultimately decide that Arthur has to be contained within one person—arguments and even simply the _time_ it would take to bring someone else up to speed could compromise any number of missions or people. Merlin makes a note to reach out to the twins once active recruitment starts up again.

Finally, after an infuriatingly exhaustive search that lasts six weeks and involves Merlin hacking the histories of MI5 agents, foreign diplomats, lifelong politicians, military men, and the occasional proficient layman, they hear a whisper.

Well. _Merlin_ hears a whisper. And it isn’t so much a whisper as it is the lack of one, according to him. The observance of a lack.

Whoever it is has Merlin baffled, and Merlin isn’t one to baffle easily.

There was an absence. In London, for the most part, but also _everywhere else_. Subtle movements, like the ripples of a spider walking delicately across its web. Actions taken on direct instruction from someone implicitly trusted but entirely unseen. Cameras everywhere (all of them) directing themselves entirely away from the actions and the face of one man.

They have no photo. It takes them another five days of running flatout to even get a name.

_Mycroft._

* * *

The whole lot of them have been involved with the search process at this point, and when it comes time to vote on Mycroft, there are no surprise entanglements. Nobody ever bumped into him getting coffee or met him at a gala, and his history is impeccable. He’s perfect.

The vote is unanimous.

* * *

He refused.

Mycroft _refused_.

Eggsy is sitting behind Merlin’s desk when he hears, and he very nearly capsizes the chair in his haste to get to the hangar (why they keep using the hangar in place of their very comfortable, very warm meeting room, he has no idea).

It was a very polite refusal on Mycroft’s part, but still a refusal. He’d signed the NDA with something close to amusement, and sent the agents on their way again without an explanation.

But Eggsy has never been one to take no for an answer, and he finds himself standing in front of a solid oak door, feet buried in the plush, noise-deadening carpet of the Diogenes a mere 40 minutes later.

He doesn’t bother knocking, which is fine, because Mycroft has clearly been informed of his arrival. There are two glasses of whiskey on the table.

* * *

“Nobody said you can’t have an assistant,” Eggsy says.

“Pardon?”

“The reason you didn’t take the job with us. You’re the British Government. You can’t just leave, but you’re clearly an exceptionally competent man, and nothing says you can’t do both. You’d probably do _this_ job _better_ , even, with our resources. You would make all the decisions, be a part of the necessary conversations, and then delegate the real work to an assistant. Give the assistant some assistants, too, if you have to. We’d give you whatever you needed to make this happen. You’re the only person qualified for it.”

* * *

“What is it that you do for Kingsman, Mr. Unwin?”

“A bit of everything, really.” Mycroft waits, expectant, and Eggsy outlines his role. “I’m a jack-of-all-trades, to be honest. I help plan missions, handle agents, and debrief. I work in the hangar a bit. Go on short missions—nothing too long, so I’m not away from my family. I, uh, wasn’t actually supposed to be here at all, but when everything went to shit, I helped. And then never left.”

“You made yourself indispensable.”

“Yeah, I suppose I did.”

“Interesting.”

* * *

When it comes, Eggsy is left with the slightly uncomfortable feeling that Mycroft’s agreement was less because of any argument Eggsy presented him with, and more because of Eggsy himself.


	2. Three Years Later

Eggsy has just stood up from a debrief when he notices Merlin twitching. He sits back down, slowly.

Merlin clears his throat and says, “Traditionally, an Arthur’s spouse is brought into the fold.”

Eggsy says nothing, merely quirking an eyebrow.

“It would be impossible,” Merlin continues, “for them to have a family, if they weren’t. Arthur is a position of immense scope, and if an Arthur’s family didn’t have security clearance, they would probably never see each other. Typically, this is for anyone who becomes Arthur while already married, as it’s rare for them to marry anyone but an agent after becoming Arthur.”

“Okay, but I already have a job here. And I’m not even married to Mycroft. What does this have to do with me?”

Merlin clears his throat. “Because of the unique circumstances surrounding you becoming _involved_ with us, you have, as you are well aware, not been placed in any of the traditional Kingsman positions. You’re just…Unwin.” His mouth twists into a moue of distaste. It’s been three years, and the man still can’t stand Eggsy’s refusal to be categorized. There’s a small part of Eggsy that forever awaits the moment of his inevitable retribution.

“Uh-huh.” He squints at Merlin, who shifts slightly in his chair—the only sign of discomfort he ever allows himself. “What are you getting at, exactly?”

“Arthur’s spouse has their own name, if you would like it. It would be unusual, but not unprecedented, for you to use it.”

“But we’re not married, Merlin.”

“I am willing to overlook that.” Merlin glances down at the tablet set beside his elbow. “Besides, I’m certain it’s only a matter of time, at this point. Finding it, that is. He asked me for the paperwork last year.”

Ignoring that for the moment (what the fuck what the fuck _whatthefuck_ ), Eggsy stands again, preparing once more to leave. He forces his voice to sound as nonchalant as possible when he says, “Sure, I’ll take it. Might be nice to have a proper handle.”

“Absolutely. I’ll make a note of it,” Merlin says.

Eggsy catches the door as it swings shut behind him and pokes his head back into Merlin’s office. “I didn’t think to ask—what’s the name?”

Merlin smirks at him through his glasses, and something in Eggsy’s stomach sinks like a stone.

“Guinevere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy owns it, tbh. Merlin might _think_ he's embarrassed Eggsy by giving him a "girl's name" but come on. He loves My Fair Lady. He knows that Guinevere is the tits.


End file.
